If it's not happiness
by KrimsonKitsu
Summary: A brief foray into the minds of a coward and a madman... Just a warning there's Gerita... so much Gerita... I can't seem to stop writing Gerita. (Nothing terribly explicit, just a bit of angst, a bit of fluff and a bit of morning cuddles-from Italy of course, Germany is not amused.)
1. Feliciano

1943:

You are a being of fear. The others remind of this every day, you hear it in their jeers, you see it in their condensation. You are the butt of their jokes, when they think of you at all (and most of the time they don't bother with you, don't see you as a threat.) And it's okay, because it's true, you are scared of so many things. So very many things.

You are scared of the war, of the blood and seared flesh and broken bones and the scars that never fully heal. You've seen so much of it already. You are afraid of the smell and the cold and sickness that never seem far from the fields. You hate seeing the march of your people, your young men, each so convinced of the cause and their own glorious part in it, even as Death perches on their shoulders and curls his fingers delicately around their downy hair. You hate and fear and cry for the boys on the other side, for the countries you once counted as brothers, as friends.

You are scared of the gun in your hand, scared by the chill of it, the weight of it, of how it rests in his hand like a punishment. You're scared of its dull sheen, like the blanched eyes of a dead man. You hold it as Ludwig explains the craftsmanship, how to clean it and hold it and you know—even as you nod and smile and nod some more—that you'll never use it.

And you'll never have to, because he's always there, all too willing to pull the trigger, to draw blood, to break bones. He is always there to pick you up from wherever you'd fallen, too paralyzed by fear to do anything more than cower. And his mouth is full of rebukes, stern promises of punishment laps and PT, while you bury your face in his uniform. You like his uniform, you like the scratch of it and the smell of aftershave and leather and sandalwood that overwhelms the scent of war and you burrow closer and closer still and you breathe him in gratefully as his stern words wash over you. You like his lectures, because despite the insults and the harsh tone, you can hear the worry running just under the surface and it feels nice to have someone worry about you again. And you like him, most of the time.

And you love him in the mornings. In those brief moments, as the sun is just reclaiming the room and you and him, everything is in limbo. He lies beside you, the fine mop of his hair falling over his fluttering eyelids as he struggles to break from the embrace of sleep. (You can't help but brace his cheek in your fingers, stealing the moment as a thief might, and you feel guilty and not guilty at the same time) He doesn't curl towards your touch, stubbornly independent even in sleep and you love him for that too. And it is in these moments that you are free to love him with wild abandon, this Ludwig, stripped free of duties and ambitions. And you love those precious moments, when there is nothing but the two of you and the soft golden light of the infant sun and the sheets that bind you together. Yes, you love him and that in and of itself is terrifying. So truly terrifying because that love means you now have something to lose. And you know you can't lose again, can't lose this piece of your life because, if you do, you aren't sure there's enough pieces left to put back together.

It's too scary to love him, so most of the time you don't. And it's easier that way and he certainly doesn't seem to notice one way or another. You stick to women, to flirting and shy smiles and the familiar because there's no risk there. You stick to painting, sneaking away when Ludwig and Kiko pull out their maps. You paint because it's the only escape from the war and you paint to remind yourself that there is still creation, even as the world seems to be burning around you. And usually that's enough. And if you're not happy, then at least it's a close substitute.

And then night comes and you lie awake, alone in your room with nothing but your thoughts and your pounding heart and the clock tick-tick-ticking away the tortuous seconds until you can safely steal away to the comfort of Ludwig's bed—when he is too groggy to do anything other than grumble in German and sidle over. And if you're lucky, he'll even let you curl up against him and you'll fall asleep, listening to the steady drum of his heart and reminding yourself that this time is different, that he isn't going to be like the others. And in the darkness, you can almost believe it.

But in the daylight you see the truth. You see the hatred, the icy cruelty, thrumming through him and you can see the war (the secret war) that he wages against it daily. And you see that he is losing. Each day there is less of your ally and it's harder to find him, buried as he is in blood and fire and battle. You pray that the war ends soon, because there won't be anything of him left otherwise. You see his hands shake when he isn't paying attention—when he's sitting at his desk, when he reads by the fire at night, when he stands watch. It's as though his body grasps and trembles before_ the truth_ his mind steadfastly denies and that scares you too. Because fear is your domain, not his.

So you take those hands and you try and remind him that he's still good, beneath it all. And you see him want to believe you, and that's probably why he keeps you around in the first place; because you are the only one who still believes it anymore. And you stay, even as his world, his war, his mind is crumbling away like sand against the tides. You stay because every time you look into those eyes, you remember a different time, a different boy, and just for that moment, you can pretend that things can be different. You pretend that you can save this one, you pretend that he cares about you, that he can protect you, that maybe, just maybe, you'll be free to love him for more that a few furtive minutes.

But… and God help you, sometimes he scares you most of all.

xXx

Author's note: I love writing for Feliciano, though I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate all the angst I put him through. I don't remember where this came from but I really wanted to do a two-part story with Feli and Ludwig that really probed into their relationship, because, in my mind, they are a perfect balance to each other. And it came out relatively "stream-of-conscious-y" because I haven't really slept since summer semester began. Hopefully I can get the second part up before Ludwig's chapter is filled with dental analogies...

On another side note, this is the first time I've ever really used their human names. Not really sure why, but this kind of piece really seemed to call for it.

Liked it, loved it? Wondering what in the seven hells is going on here? Please let me know!


	2. Ludwig

Ludwig—1993

You are a being of madness.

You feel it, coursing, thrumming, beating just below the surface. You hide it and you hide it well—behind facades of order and regulation and schedules. The others don't know about the madness, or, if they do, they don't really mention it. But they don't really come closer either, and you try not to think about that.

It's easier this way. You can preoccupy yourself with numbers and cold, solid science and ignore that you are still a subject of fear, of pity, of hate, of intrigue. You don't really understand how any one being can be all of these things, but you have been all of them for so long that you don't really question it anymore. You've spent a half-century rebuilding what a mad boss tore down in ten, trying to recapture the glory that had once captivated the world, trying to atone for leading your people so far astray. There is guilt, so much guilt, because you could have stopped it, stopped it all.

You'd just been so hungry, so very hungry, the emptiness of an entire people gnawing at your cavernous stomach. And you were tired, you were so very worn down, dreaming of a day when your people could be proud of you. You dreamt of a day when you could be something to depend on again, when you could lay victory at the feet of your people. (And you dreamt of a soft smile, of chestnut hair, of an apron, and a broom and a kiss that you are certain never happened and yet did and it makes both your head and heart hurt. You try not to think about that kiss, but it felt so nice to be needed, to feel another heart beating for you.) And you're tired of dreaming. So when _he _appeared, with a zeal, and a plan, and a fiery passion, you couldn't help but draw closer, warming your dying fingers against the promise of a glorious future. It was the madness that accepted him, that blinded you to the inescapable conclusion, the only logical end.

The worst part of it, the part that still wakes you at night in a cold sweat, is how blind you'd been to it all. Every night, it seems, you dream—not of glory and kisses and victory, but of blood, of bodies, of the devil. And your dream, you see your people, selling their souls to him and receiving apathy in return, and your hands are drenched with their blood, and your mind is filled with their blank eyes, with their rabid minds. And the devil looks like Hitler. And every night, you wake up, drenched and sickened by the memories that you can't let yourself forget. Your people have paid for their madness, and you don't want them to pay anymore, so you take it in—better that they get on with their lives. And it's nice now, this new generation and he sits back and lets them build a world that he never could have imagined—they take power, not with tanks, not with bloodshed, but with science, with engineering, with conscience.

And all the poison that you'd taken in is dying down, retreating from your veins and your synapses for some quiet place to sleep, and you dare to hope that this will be the end of it. And hope feels like a stranger to you after all of this time, but a it is a welcome one and you draw it in, cradling it carefully to your chest to shield it from the lecherous grasp of the madness. You hope. You relish it—this fragile luxury you've rediscovered.

And you hope alone. There is no one—not your brother (a pang, you don't think about him, you don't think about the day the wall fell), not Kiko (who had his atonement, his own recovery, and to be honest, you're pretty sure he blames you for it all on some level), not Feli— (you still can't say his name.)

And you miss him most of all at night. As you wake from your confused and tortured dreams and your hand reaches out and grabs nothing but empty sheets and they seem to taunt you, the dreams and the sheets and the nothing. You can still smell him in those hours, and somehow he always managed to smell like sun and salt air and you were always a bit jealous of that and you ached to pull him closer to claim that smell for yourself. As you wake, you can still feel his callused fingers sliding over your cheek, and your eyes stay closed because you don't want him to know that you actually like how that feels and you like that he's curled around you and maybe he isn't as useless as you thought, and maybe this time you'll have the nerve to finally kiss him— And then your eyes open and you realize that he isn't there, hasn't been there in such a very long time.

You still remember the day he realized it. You still replay the exact moment you saw the fear creep into his eyes as he looked into yours. You remember it because it was the exact moment you realized how far you'd fallen. You remember the day he left. You remember how your hand tightened on his wrist, because, what the hell, you had lost him anyway. And you tugged him closer and it wasn't a kiss because you refuse to call what you did to him that day anything other than what it was, an act of madness. And that madness haunts your dreams too.

And you go about your day as though nothing was wrong, you join your scientists, you let yourself to be drawn into America's inane arguments, you attend meetings and you are allowed to fade into the background and it's nice. And if you still haven't figured out how to quite smile when you catch Feliciano's eye, and if you still haven't figured out what the look he gives you in return, it's okay. And if it isn't happiness, it's more than you deserve.

Because someday, he'll forgive you. You know this with an absolute certainty, though you cannot explain why you are so certain or how you came across this certainty. Some day, he will lose the fear and your madness will be a distant memory and he'll wrap his arms around you and you'll kiss him (and there won't be any other word for it). And you won't wake to nothing and he won't have to steal into your bed trembling and there will be no more nightmares…. For either of you.

And if it isn't happiness, it will be something far far better.

xXx

I feel like the 1990's were an interesting time for Germany as they were finally reunited and began to forge forward as a true country once more, it only seemed right to place Ludwig's narrative at a point in time when the country was caught between the promise of its future and the shame of its past. I hope you enjoy the second part and if there isn't enough of a happy ending I promise there will likely be some super fluffy ficlet that crops up as a result of this-I actually thought about doing an epilogue but I don't know if it would fit with the story. Maybe that'll change, I don't know.


End file.
